


Breathe

by ghostpun



Series: Birdmen Drabbles [8]
Category: BIRDMEN - 田辺イエロウ | Tanabe Yellow
Genre: (Like the compulsive thing), (specifically mentions of a car crash drowning and a stabbing), Angst, Character Study, Death, Gen, Oh boy ummm, Panic Attacks, picking at skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-19 11:22:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29873907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostpun/pseuds/ghostpun
Summary: The idea of Takayama growing up alone as a seraph and drifting away from everyone is terrifying, but I’m sure it was even more terrifying for Takayama himself
Series: Birdmen Drabbles [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1308698
Kudos: 2





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Found these in the back end of my Google drive, written over 2 years ago? I felt like updating it and releasing it 
> 
> Also I know I said my next fic would be for EDEN au or my romcom au, but, well XD I might just post more drabbles here while I work on bigger things (or forget to work on bigger things)

Takayama, 12 years old, stares up at the sky. Intermittently, clouds block out the sun, casting him briefly in shadow.

The blackout should be here any moment now.

He doesn’t move, yet, instead enjoying the calm which comes when he sits in the field by his Aunt’s home. The wind tussles his hair, and the fall chill bites at his cheeks. He breathes; _in, out._

When the blackout finally appears, a hole ripping it’s way into view, it sends a jolt down Takayama’s spine. He’s kicking off from the ground immediately, launches at full speed before the creature emerges.

He hates these...things. He’s still not sure what it all means, but he does know that the sight of the tar-like, disgusting creatures has his stomach curling. There’s also a sense of urgency; skin bristling and blood boiling, a timer beginning to click in Takayama’s head. 

The blackout has squeezed its way fully out, now. It’s shattered voice already clacking away with its standard mantra ( _kill, kill, kill_ , clicking in time with the timer). 

He wastes no time in raking his claw against the monster’s body, before pulling back attempting to use his wingmass as some sort of shield. He’s learned the hard way by now that he needed as much of a _defense_ as he an _offense_.

A part of him looks forward to these battles. It gave him something to do, something to _feel_ , rather than be numbly pulled this way and that across the prefecture, trying to save as many people as he could. (He fails, he always fails).

This week’s mistakes flash into view as he attempts to attack the monster again. _Cut._ He sees a woman in her 20’s, bleeding out inside her crumpled car. He crashes his leg into one of the monster's eyes. _Crunch._ A boy, only a little older than himself, lays cold on the ground, after Takayama fishes his drowned corpse out from the frozen pond. _Slash_ . The blackout flings itself at Takayama, screaming, and it barely misses his arm. The shriek that escapes from its mangled maw rips into his mind. It’s the same pitch as the lady from a few hours prior, who screamed until her voice was raw, begging for Takayama to go away, clutching where she had been fatally stabbed by a mugger. ( _“M-Monster! Stay Back!”_ )

She died in shock and terror, collapsing on the ground, still feebly trying to kick Takayama away. By the time he got close enough to apply pressure to the wound, she was gone. 

When he realized it, he sat in the alleyway, alone, terrified at how he couldn’t even feel anything.

(Where had his empathy gone? In the beginning, he was constantly sobbing over each useless attempt to play hero. Now he can’t seem to care. Not about his classmates, his family, or even for those who die).

Takayama rips the blackout’s body into shreds, and it begins to disappear back into the sky.

Takayama doesn't pay attention, his head swirling so much that he almost falls straight out of the sky.

He somehow makes it home, landing (more like crashing) into some nearby trees and fumbly putting on his clothes and stumbling up the stairs and into his aunt’s apartment, then down the hall and into the bathroom, collapsing in front of the sink. Every inch of him is on fire, and his headache is killing him. He closes his eyes, tries to sturdy his breath, before glancing up into the mirror. His eyes used to be pitch black, but now they were bright red. (Occasionally, over the years, they flickered back and forth. Some of his classmates found it cool, most of them thought he was some sort of freak. By the time his irises were permanently blood red, everyone avoided him. But he didn’t mind.

 _Why didn’t he mind?_ )

Underneath his hands, the cold, wet sink only reminds him of the drowned boy’s clammy skin. 

Choking out a gasp from the thought, he crouches, incidentally pressing his forehead on the edge of the sink, and stares at the floor, gasping, desperately trying to figure out how to remember to _breathe._

He hates these moments. Hates feeling so empty, so full, both too attached and not enough. He tries to push them down but they always resurface, like a blackout clawing its way out of it‘s summon. It’s even more terrifying to think that he’s growing more and more empty. He can’t decide if he _wants_ to be. If he wants to kick and fight whatever was taking over his mind and leaving him so disconnected. If it’s even still _possible_ , if it’s honestly too late, and if Takayama’s stuck to be just as much as a monster that woman thought of him to be, all jet black wings and red eyes, with no care for her outcome or fate. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, mind circling repeatedly as he desperately tries to find any piece of himself that still cares. But he can’t _focus_. Not with this headache. Not with this dizziness. He can’t think. He _can’t_. He can’t. He-

He doesn’t notice he’s crying until he involuntarily lets out a shaky sob.

The boy reaches out, and touches the tear, smearing it slightly against the cool tile. He then wipes his face, sniffling. He can't remember the last time cried. 

He sits on the ground fully, now, breathing in and out, grateful that his aunt is still at work. He feels guilty whenever she has to deal with him. 

He looks over at his hands, before quietly starting to pick at them. It's something, and he’ll take anything to help than think about it all. 

Picking is...rhythmatic, and the pricks of pain, the raking of his nails against skin, is almost comforting. It lets him zone out, but it slowly grounds him, each prick a reminder he is not empty, that he still feels emotions such as pain.

He doesn’t even notice he’s been picking at his hands for a while, not until his Aunt opens the door and gasps, at which point Takayama fully realizes just how bloody his hands are. 

He’ll fiddle with the bandages on them later. 

**Author's Note:**

> Btw, this scene is actually directly connected to another fic I have published ;) Bonus points if you know which one


End file.
